High School Never Ends - Spideypool
by ThanksIllPass
Summary: SEQUEL TO LETTERS TO W. Peter and Wade on a date.


"This isn't really working, is it?" asked Wade in a small voice that made Peter's heart drop. He could feel his eyes going wide as the panic started to well up in the pit of his stomach.

They were sitting on the floor of Peter's leaving room, eating tacos and drinking beer, half-listening to some radio station that seemed to be targeting angry teenagers, judging by the amount of growls Peter could hear from his neighbor's apartment. Not that Peter had been on many, but so far, this was the least romantic date he had ever had. Which was… refreshing; out of ordinary, just like Wade.

Wade had awkwardly declined Peter's invitations to any kind of public place, so after beating himself over being so stupidly oblivious and inadvertently insensitive, Peter had decided to ask him to come to his place. He thought that things were going well. Wade was wearing obscenely tight jeans and a red dress shirt, fortunately leaving the Ugly Scarf of Stealth at home. There wasn't any awkward silence between them – they talked, and laughed, and bickered all the time. It was nice, Peter was having _a nice time_, why would Wade say it wasn't working?

Peter nervously swallowed the last bit of taco down and instinctively wiped his hands on his pants, which in turn made him want to facepalm himself. But grease stains on his clothes were enough, thank you, no need to have them on his face too. He frowned and tried to recreate the evening, find where the hell things could have gone wrong. Maybe he said something? Was he staring too much? Did he seem uncomfortable?

He had been nervous, he wasn't going to lie. He'd been afraid things would get awkward because they hadn't really talked face to face for so long, or that he would make Wade uncomfortable and self-conscious about his scars without meaning to. Peter wasn't really _good_ at these things. He wasn't good at _people_. It took a special person like Gwen or Aunt May to get Peter, to see past his nerdy awkwardness, the way he kept to himself, and how he dealt with nervousness with sarcasm.

But Wade was special, wasn't he? And he did agree to go out with Peter, and Peter refused to believe that he would do that because of lack of other options. He didn't want to believe that Wade could be so shallow. Or maybe that other people could be so shallow. He believed that high school _did_ end eventually.

Peter hadn't had a chance to take a good look at Wade's scars during their last – short and rather embarrassing for them both – meeting in the coffee shop. Wade's underwear had been really distracting. Just like his unbelievable eyes, and ridiculous cheekbones, and sinfully calloused hands. And his _abs_, Jesus _Christ_…

Peter had to admit that being shallow was unavoidable sometimes.

Still, as much as he didn't mind Wade's scars, he knew how much Wade was ashamed of them. They were the reason why Wade had disappeared from Peter's life for months. People didn't do that just because, and Peter knew he had to be careful and considerate. He _wanted_ to be. But being able to was a completely different story, because usually the harder Peter tried, the harder he failed. Just his luck.

But as soon as Wade had entered Peter's shithole of an apartment, all of Peter's worries had somehow vanished. Wade started joking about slave trade, because "Peter must have been seriously underpaid if he didn't even own a TV." Wade must have suspected, after all the information that Peter had revealed via coffee mail, that Peter wasn't ready to truly settle in and rent something other than the ugliest and barest place he could find, so Peter really appreciated it.

Especially when he had fully realized that inviting someone to an apartment that only had a ratty couch, a leaking shower, and a dying fridge, was probably the worst idea he could possibly have, ever. But Wade didn't seem to mind at all, which didn't help Peter fight with his impression of artists as poor and caffeine-addicted slobs.

Wade offered Peter his share of tacos and Peter took two beers out of the fridge and that was basically it. They shared a meal on a hole-ridden carpet, talking about nothing in particular – about Wade's latest book, about Peter's terrifying landlady, about their favorite comic book characters, about their high school bullies… It was _nice_. They downed a couple of beer each, and Peter felt relaxed and giddy. Wade's bad jokes seemed much more funnier than they really were, but his collarbones were definitely not visible enough with only one button open. They had _fun_, and Peter couldn't understand what happened. He really couldn't.

"Peter?" Wade prompted him uncertainly, and Peter glanced at him in passing, quickly returning to looking for the answers in the stains on his knees.

"Shut up, I'm trying to figure out where I screwed up," he muttered absentmindedly and did he just tell his date to_ shut up_? Jesus Christ, Parker.

Wade chuckled, which was decidedly not something Peter had expected. He looked up again, this time fixing his eyes on Wade's and trying to convey his confusion with his eyebrows.

"You didn't screw up anywhere, Petey. It just… doesn't really seem like a _date_, wouldn't you say? "

Peter didn't know what punched him harder, Wade's words or that small sad smile that followed them, quickly hidden behind a bottle of beer.

"Why, because there's no table under which we could play footsie?" blurted Peter. That's how he_dealt with nerves_, alright? Give him a break. Wade choked on his beer and spilled it all over himself. He tried not to laugh as he tried to wipe his mouth and throat with the back of his hand, and Peter snickered triumphantly. "You're kinda gross, you know that?"

"Says the guy who wipes his hands on his pants."

"I'm keeping these napkins for when I'm bleeding out to death. If you haven't noticed, I can't afford towels. My boss is a slave-driver."

"Is that why I'm here? You looking for a sugar daddy?"

"If I was, I would look somewhere else than an unknown writer of cheap adventure stories."

"I'll have you know, that I'm a big hit among the elderly. They're wise and experienced enough to get my sublime genius."

"You mean demented enough?"

"Shut up, coffee boy."

Peter smiled, feeling himself relax and finally _breathe_. Now that he knew the problem, he could get rid of it. Just like Peter had expected, the harder he tried, the harder he failed. He felt stupid. He had been so hellbent on making it natural and comfortable, that this whole date thing turned out to be_unnatural_ and completely un-date-like. It was saying _I like you_, but it wasn't saying _I'm attracted to you_. No wonder Wade would think it wasn't going where it was supposed to. Not that Peter had any idea where it was supposed to be going; his last first date had been in high school.

Somehow Peter suspected that his first date scenario wasn't really applicable in their current situation, considering he'd taken Gwen to the movies and an old-fashioned diner, and she had kissed him on her doorstep and Peter had almost come in his pants. Yeah, _no_. His third date, though. His third date had been much like this one – a movie date in Peter's living room ending in a sloppy and inexperienced make-out session on the couch. And Peter coming in his pants, obviously.

But this wasn't high school anymore, _thank god_, and Peter really didn't know what to do. He could only hope that Wade did. All he could do was let Wade know that this _was_ a date and it should preferably entail date-like activities. Ignoring how immature it was, he nudged Wade's leg with his foot. Wade looked at him, half-annoyed, half-questioning.

"Come on, didn't you want to play footsie?" asked Peter, trying to sound more teasing than mortified. Wade snorted.

"That was you," he bit out, kicking Peter back. "I was the one pointedly eying the couch for the last half an hour."

Okay, so maybe it _was_ still high school.

Peter didn't really know what happened. One moment he was blushing and trying not to splutter indignantly from sheer surprise alone, in the next one he was between Wade and the couch, scrambling for the buttons of Wade's shirt, telling him he stank of beer, before finally, _finally,_ putting his mouth on Wade's collarbones, relishing the way the scar tissue felt against his lips. Wade hissed and dug his nails into Peter's arms, grinding down on Peter with his whole body.

Wade swallowed Peter's gasp in his mouth and Peter felt dizzy. Wade's mouth was hot and insistent and _hungry_ and Peter could barely keep up. It's been too long, definitely too long. And this was _so different_. Wade was hard muscle and crushing weight and sheer determination. Feeling Wade hard against him made Peter dangerously close to coming in his pants, _again_, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He just didn't want to stop.

He wrapped his legs around Wade's hips and pushed up, biting back a moan. No, no, he had a plan, what was the plan? He couldn't remember, completely lost in the feeling of Wade sucking a bruise on his neck. He was trying to flip them around, to get Wade underneath him, but no, here was good,_so good_.

No, he needed to push, he need to be let up, he needed his shirt off, he needed _Wade's_ shirt off. He put his hands on Wade's shoulders and started pushing again, kissing Wade to make sure he didn't get the wrong idea. He could finally feel Wade letting up a bit, and the couch was no longer digging into his back, he just had to make one last effort…

He more heard than felt the couch falling over. The thud was audible even over the rush of blood in his ears, so it had probably woken up Peter's landlady, if not half the building. He stared down at Wade with wide eyes, panting for breath and trying to calm himself at least enough to _listen_. He whimpered a little when he felt Wade's hand sneak up his back under his shirt, and scowled at Wade's smug snicker.

Peter cringed when he finally heard the door slamming below them, followed by quick and decidedly very angry steps on the stairs. Wade lifted his hips, seemingly to make himself at least a bit more comfortable while they waited, but Peter swatted his shoulder anyway, in case it was intentional. The sound of steps intensified and then abruptly died, replaced with loud banging on the door. Peter wanted to cry.

"What do you think you're doing, do cholery?1" The landlady's voice was like a nail against a glass and it made Peter's blood run cold. He had never lost a hard-on this fast in his life. "Do you have any idea what time it is? I'm gonna throw you out on the street, gówniarzu jeden!2"

"I'm very sorry!" Peter choked out. "It won't happen again, I promise!"

"It better not, you hear me? Do diabła z tymi bachorami,3 tfu!"

Peter listened to his landlady's steps fade away, and finally allowed himself to breathe when he heard her door slam again. He slumped against Wade like a ragdoll, exhausted from stress and still a bit terrified. The mood was most definitely gone. On the bright side, at least he didn't come in his pants.

* * *

The landlady is Polish ha. 1damn it! 2you shitty brat! 3to hell with those brats! 


End file.
